"A peculiar anthologic maze, an amusing literary chaos, a farrago of quotations, a mere olla podrida of quaintness, a pot pourri of pleasant delites, a florilegium of elegant extracts, a tangled fardel of old-world flowers of thought, a faggot of odd fancies, quips, facetiae, loosely tied" (Holbrook Jackson, Anatomy of Bibliomania) by a "laudator temporis acti," a "praiser of time past" (Horace, Ars Poetica 173).

Tuesday, January 13, 2009

Dear Friends

Edwin Arlington Robinson, Dear Friends:

Dear friends, reproach me not for what I do,Nor counsel me, nor pity me; nor sayThat I am wearing half my life awayFor bubble-work that only fools pursue.And if my bubbles be too small for you,Blow bigger then your own: the games we playTo fill the frittered minutes of a day,Good glasses are to read the spirit through.

And whoso reads may get him some shrewd skill;And some unprofitable scorn resign,To praise the very thing that he deplores;So, friends (dear friends), remember, if you will,The shame I win for singing is all mine,The gold I miss for dreaming is all yours.